Counting
by thefishoutofwater
Summary: Olivia Dunham has always had a thing for numbers. Reflections post 3 x 09
1. Chapter 1

Olivia/ Peter - an angsty set fo refletions post Olivia's return.

My borrowing the characters is just that - they aren't mine and I mean no offense in taking them out for a spin!

Enjoy

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Olivia Dunham has always had a thing for numbers.

Seventeen nights. Most with little or no sleep and all of it taken on the sofa or in the armchair, blanket pulled up tight to her chin. Eleven attempts at dinner revisited only hours later. Six nights where even the idea of pretending to be hungry seemed like too much like hard work.

Eighteen days she's been back. Of them she has found reasons to sit in her uniform, impersonal office in the federal building for nine. Avoided the lab altogether for twelve. She's turned corners and seen conversations between fellow agents stop abruptly on at least thirty two occasions – plus one where she couldn't be sure and so, true to her own moral code, did not count.

She's washed the contents of her wardrobe five times - eleven loads of washing in all. As she's piled each bundle together she has been grimly amused by the lack of colour and how much more simple it makes the exercise. She'd sobbed, big almost hiccoughing sobs for the first time over her favourite shoes – so missed until she'd realised another owner had staked a claim whilst she had been gone. She's opened four new packs of underwear unashamedly, having thrown everything that had been in the dresser drawer away. She's pulled open the drawer where she had folded the faded MIT t-shirt and traced it gently with her finger fourteen times.

She's reached towards a bottle and refilled a too quickly empty glass on sixty two occasions. Looked at the screen of her mobile phone and ignored his call forty seven times. Picked up the phone to call him nineteen times more.

Night eighteen rolls round after a difficult day. One where Broyles cast his thirteenth worried look in her direction and forced her to the lab on what feels like a patronising and futile errand. A day where the minutes moved as if they were hours and the previously warm and familial atmosphere was stilted and frosty. A day where Walter started to speak and then stopped a record fourteen times even his usual childlike enthusiasm failing in the face of the rolling yet never ending tension. As night fell she made her excuses and now here she is again. Wandering almost aimlessly through the space that was once her home. She picks up a glass from the worktop next to the sink and pours shot sixty three. Flicks through the property guide for the ninth time. Feels the now familiar flash of anger that she has to even consider leaving. Feels impotent and irate with herself for the brooding. The phone buzzes on the coffee table and the screen flashes in the now encroaching dark. She reaches for it, knowing what she'll see. Frustrated with herself that even through her anger she is relieved he hasn't given up. She presses cancel. Fifty. As she puts it down she watches in resignation as her hand shakes and the waves of sobs come once more. The thirtieth time.

Olivia Dunham has always had a thing for numbers.

Before... Peter used to enjoy knowing this about her. Enjoyed the memory of her sharing it with him; an almost confession. Enjoyed the hint of trust that the always implied. Knowing it he enjoyed watching her from the corner of his eye, or increasingly more blatantly as they drove and she counted the miles. He enjoyed her flush of quiet pleasure when a case needed her to recall strings of numbers or place a number plate. Enjoyed watching her almost instantaneously count toppings on the pizzas they shared over the desk late at night or tally up the bottles or shots on their all too rare nights out. Now the knowledge burns him.

How many times did he betray her? Too many. But what to count and from when? The sixteen times he tumbled to her bed (and sofa and shower wall) are obvious but hardly the sole count of his transgression. Arguably greater are the multitude of missed signs – the fact She walked away after straight after chasing him down in another universe, the new found love of music but vagueness of Her film history, Her sudden forthrightness when it came to the physical, the quick smile, the times She struggled with numbers, with recollection. Hindsight and self hatred provide a vivid and large screen to replay the memories and as they keep coming as his loathing grows. He can't stop thinking, can't stop trying to come up with a value. Should he count the conversations on the pillows before sleep took them both, the times he thrilled with making Her giggle, the easy intimacy curled up in front of the television? Should he include the times he left Walter alone so he could be with Her? The favours asked of Astrid? With so many failings he is afraid he'll never be able to stop and worries that she will drive herself slowly mad trying to understand them all, to see and to total them all.

Today she appeared in the lab, awkward with an irrelevant task for Broyles. He could see her counting steps, keeping her distance from him. Three times he glanced up and saw her eyes on him. The rawness of her pain shining all too vividly. He needs for it to be better. Needs for her to be better and for it not to feel like this anymore. He just doesn't know what to say or how to make it happen, but knows selfishly in the part that hasn't quite given up hope that he wants to be the one to make it better. To provide comfort. He reaches for the phone and is almost relieved when he hits voicemail so quickly after the third ring that he knows she's blocked his call.

She nurses glass sixty three as the tears slow and then stop and her body ceases shaking. She reaches for the corner light for the eighteenth time and flinches in the harsh light. She puts the glass down and starts her nightly wandering – into the kitchen where she decides tonight will be the seventh without food. Into the bedroom where an all but magnetic pull drags her to the dresser. Her hands reach out and the top drawer slides open revealing the soft grey marl t shirt. She reaches in and rather than tentitively touch the t-shirt she picks it up and hold it close to her chest for what is the second time. She pauses all but expecting the thirty first set of tears. They don't come. She feels strangely empty and clear headed – and moves back to the phone room with purpose. She picks up the phone and makes a snap decision to reset the count.

Not the twentieth but the first. She presses the third speed dial on the phone,

"Peter?"


	2. Chapter 2

A/N As i may have said I am fairly new at this and was very touched with all of the interest in this story. Also more than a little flattered by the request for more. So hear it is – part 2 of ? Please do let me know what you think . (characters still not mine)

Olivia Dunham likes to swim.

She thinks that nobody knows this about her – thinks that the only two people who she shared enough of her life to know this are dead. Thinks that everyone else imagines only the law maker, the protector, the bodyguard of the strange scientist. Too cold, too aloof to have hobbies, pleasures. Even her sister never thought to ask, to wonder where she went first thing the morning before returning to shower and change for work. She would have liked to share with her niece but she has never been in the habit of making promises she could not keep so never mentioned. Never offered for fear of letting the small girl down. The remains of her rag tag team did not invest too much time in the minutiae of each other's lives – it was all about the big stuff, never the small things. And so she kept this to herself, a simple secret.

She loves being immersed in the water, loves clearing her mind, focusing on nothing but the number of strokes, the rhythm of her breathing. She loves the feeling of being in control, propelling herself through the water counting the lengths of the pool as she ratchets up to her fifty target. Loves the calmness followed by the burst of energy that swimming gives her to push her through the day. Thirty two days ago when she realised who she was, where she was and how dire her situation was she had found herself missing the pool. Over there no one seemed to swim and she hadn't wanted to risk alerting anyone by asking. It was the little things that led to despair.

For the last twenty mornings she has continued to forgo her pleasure, unwilling to imagine that she had been usurped here as well. Unwilling and yet she has counted each and every morning when the idea of the pool and its peace has crossed her mind. Twenty images of a smiling, happy replacement charming everyone, taking over yet another part of her life. It's been too easy to stay away. Instead she has used her swimming time to travel across town to the barely used gym to shower and change, rather than use her own bathroom which despite three packets of cleaner feels strangely dirty.

On this, the twenty first morning she has awoken feeling different, the raging in her head not gone but quietened. She has no recollection of counting down through the hours of the night and of the early morning. So with great purpose she has headed towards the smoothie shop on the way to the pool for the first time since her return. Has been foolishly relieved to hear the usual guy at the counter say; "long time no see" as she places her order.

The morning air is cold, the wrong side of bracing as she dives through the air and into the water and almost instantaneous calm. One stoke, two strokes, breathe. Three, four, breathe. Five, six, breathe. She hits her tempo enjoying the steam as the heated water meets the air and allows her mind to wander back three evenings...

_Three times she heard him exhale. Short almost panting little breaths. Nervous breaths. Six times her heart thrummed in her chest. _

"_Olivia?"_

_Another five beats before she muttered a muted, but definite affirmative. _

_He breathed in again. She could hear the slight catch, the shake and then he exhaled. Six more times, each becoming longer, calmer. She could almost imagine the cogs that drive his remarkable intelligence cranking into action; desperately seeking the right words, the right action – any action. However nothing was forthcoming and the silence stretched. It should have been awkward but it wasn't. In fact the shared silence was the most comfortable she has felt since her return and she had relaxed a notch, sliding down to the floor, back against her armchair phone gripped firmly in her left hand. On his eighth inhalation she became aware that she has held her own breath for a second until they were breathing together. Synchronised over the open line. She had let her eyes slide shut and imagined him smiling slightly on the other side of town as he breathed in tandem with her._

Olivia Dunham likes to swim.

Before...Peter enjoyed knowing this about her. Enjoyed being gently amused by the fact that in all their time working together he'd never heard her so much as even mention the word. He enjoyed the mornings that they were working in Boston and she would arrive in the lab, hair snatched back from her face in a tight tail, its end just a little damp and ever so slightly curled from the water. Enjoyed, more than he probably should have, those times that she would brush past him, or lean over him and he could catch the faintest hint of the chlorine on her skin. He enjoyed even more their rare trips away when she would hungrily look at a hotels amenities before disappearing with a half mumbled excuse and he would bargain with himself not to go check out the pool area for himself. Not to take the opportunity to check out his partner in her costume.

As he readies an experiment in the lab on the twenty first morning since her return he adds this to the list of betrayals he needs to count. Not once in all the time She was here did he see that little kink in Her hair. Not once did he catch that hint of chlorine under Her scent. Not once as he made himself comfortable in Her space did he see a gym bag, a costume or a towel. If Olivia has a four plus times a week swimming habit then he has betrayed her ...god he didn't even want to think.

Every day she had been at the lab he's looked out for a sign she's been to the pool, that she's claiming herself back, asserting herself, but he's yet to see so much as a hint. She had been avoiding the Bishop men as much as possible and even if her last two visits to the lab in the last two days have shown a slight thawing of the previously frosty, stilted atmosphere there has been little hint that their Olivia is really back. She is sallow, thinning by the day and has dark bruises under her eyes. Her scent is no longer her own, each visit suggests a different sample of shower gel and shampoo and there is no hint of chlorine. Only the haunted eyes remain. Yet he has hope. Three nights ago she rang and whilst she didn't speak he could hear her on the phone adjusting her breathing until it mirrored his own and he could not help but smile down the phone in the certainty that she was counting his, their breaths. An act so totally Olivia as to offer a chink of light in their all too dark tunnel.

She pauses at the door to the lab. This is her ninth visit to the lab but only the second without Broyles insistence. She pauses takes three cleansing breaths before pushing the door open firmly. Her hair tied firmly back in a band swinging over her shoulder as she moves, leaving a small damp mark on her jacket

His eyes jerk to hers and then down to her shoulder and he smiles.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N Many thanks for the reviews encouraging me to carry on – I really am excited by the interest there has been in this.

In this chapter I do have to apologise – the problem with my numbers thing is sooner or laterI had to take a stab at how long Olivia was away. Despite my best efforts and transcript reading I couldn't figure it out so I have gone for forty – if I'm wrong please don't flame me (still not my characters)

Olivia Dunham loves her family – would kill for them; would die for them.

It's been seventy six days since she spoke to her sister. Forty over there and thirty six since she came back. There have been eight voicemails on her answer phone and she hasn't returned any of them, hasn't even listened properly afraid of what she might hear. She's sent four text messages in the vein of "busy, speak soon" and worries that they may not work forever. Seven of the nightmares that have broken her all too fitful sleep have been about her replacement supplanting her place with her family. She sees Ella, warm and drowsy from her bath curled up against the side of a red headed doppelganger. Wakes up feeling the cold space where the child wasn't pressed. She sees Rachel sitting in the kitchen chatting about her day, joking, whilst sheet of red hair is thrown backwards, as the women who stole her life guffaws; a hearty no-holds-barred laugh. Wakes up feeling like she never heard, never understood the punchline. She sees herself walking towards her mother's grave, flowers in hand only to find the space taken and a perfect posy being left by a retreating red back. Wakes feeling even her grief has been stolen from her. In her nightmares, She, the other Olivia always has red hair. Always stands out as so unmistakably wrong that her dreaming, observing self wants to scream at her family – it so obviously isn't her.

Tonight, the thirty sixth night, she cannot even sleep. She lies wide awake staring at the ceiling above the bed. She has had a night cap – a single shot of whisky form the supremely expensive hotel mini bar and misses the feel of a bigger bottle in her hand, the comfort of being able to top up the glass. It's their first case away from Boston since she returned. There have been five before this but all have allowed her to keep as much, or as little distance as she needed from the Bishops. Have allowed her to excuse herself back to the Federal building where the rumours have finally started to die down. Have meant that she could send Walter and his chaperone off to New York and Walter's new shiny play thing. Not today. This morning she had endured two hours on a plane. Walter had sat on her left and alternated between humming the same five bars of music under his breath and muttering a disjointed soliloquy about Italian beef. Peter sat to her right, holding his body rigid lest he touch her, but still casting concerned glances at her when he thought she wasn't looking. Eleven times she caught him. Didn't know what to say. This afternoon she had suffered the indignity of acting as a buffer between Walter's assertion that they were dealing with a telekinetic thief and the local police department. And now, tonight, she is lying in a hotel bed and she can not sleep. Not any hotel. The Marriott Courtyard. Chicago.

Olivia Dunham loves her family – would kill for them, would die for them.

Before ...Peter enjoyed knowing this about her. Enjoyed knowing there was more to her than the professional, capable agent he worked with everyday. Enjoyed knowing that there was something that mattered more than getting the bad guy, more than working by the rules. As a child brought up by a distant, distracted father and a vulnerable and defeated mother this drew him to her. As a man who had wandered rootless through his adult years he found her commitment to family magnetic. He remembered the first time he realised the strength of that commitment, on a day when clearly shaken, she told a horrific story about a nine year old child afraid that she couldn't help her mother. Remembered wondering what it would be like to be cared for like that. He remembered how, whilst grieving her own lost love she opened up her home and nurtured her sister and her child without ever a word to her own pain. He remembered his anger with her when even in danger herself her first concern was not to worry her family. On the rare occasions he saw her with her niece her face lit up, her eyes lost their haunted look and her smile was wide and true. In those moments he felt blessed to see this other side of her that only her family saw. Pondered the impossibility of being part of it one day.

Now this knowledge tears at him. Not once in the days he was playing at being in love did he notice Rachel and Ella's absence from Her life. He didn't notice the lack of visits, the absence of phonecalls. He chose to ignore that She spent the evening of Ella's birthday teasing him, driving him wild in bed rather than helping blow out candles on the cake. As he increasingly made himself at home he didn't acknowledge the child's board games being pushed further and further back in the closet. As he thought about the possibility of a forever he didn't notice She wasn't warm with children – that she shied away from connecting with the young witness in one of their last cases together. His faithlessness knew no bounds, he doesn't know how he can ever count all the things he missed, how he can ever put it right.

Day thirty seven is grey and miserable and she wishes she could crawl back into bed, hibernate, even disturbed sleep seems preferable to a day like the one before. But hiding is not an option and so she stands impatiently in the lobby. She waits for Walter to finish exclaiming his interest in the breakfast buffet, waiting to get one step closer to the end of the day.

"Olivia?" her sister's tone is nervous, tremulous. "Peter called."

She spins on her heel, turning to face the voice, blanching at the implication. The immediate image in her head of Rachel and Ella and Peter and Her sharing a lunch, sharing their lives, nauseating her.

"God Liv it's so good to see you, its been so long. Months in fact."

She frowns, confused. Her mental picture dissolving.

"Aunt Liv," her niece is more fervent. "Where've you been? Why didn't you call back on my birthday?"

The memory comes fast. The day, forty nine ago now when she'd crossed over; scared, no, petrified; and pulled a number from a brain that she hadn't thought was hers and heard the girlish voice, excited from the celebrations. Certain in her aunts love.

Her bottom lip shakes as the realisation comes. Her family is still her own. Her place here hasn't been commandeered. As she chokes down the burgeoning sob she pulls her sister and niece into a tight embrace.

Peter walks from the restaurant and holds out an arm to pull Walter back as the Dunham women stand in the lobby holding each other, looking like they may never let go. A set of green eyes filmy with unshed tears meet his and she holds his gaze. Over her sisters shoulder she mouths a word at him,

"Thank you"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N As ever thanks for the reviews. This is I think, the penultimate chapter (althought an epilogue is starting to also make itself known to me. Possibly as a stand alone!). I have not come into money in the last day or so and such these characters are regretfully still not mine. Sorry, if they were I'd consider sharing.

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Olivia Dunham has always been fond of a drink.

In the thirty six days that proceeded Chicago there had been four empty whisky bottles in the recycling. There was a fifth almost ready to join it. Logically she knew this was too many but in the hours of darkness, when sleep was not forthcoming and her home felt foreign the glass in her hand was comforting and emptied almost of its own volition. On day one had she emptied her wardrobes and filled the washing machine – the glass never far from her hand. On day ten she gave up her half hearted efforts at cooking when she found the pans had all been moved, and turned to the scotch instead. On day fourteen as she sat on the floor and let the sobs rack her body for the twenty third time because she could not find the iron, opening a bottle of wine seemed like the only thing to do. On day twenty seven she considered a takeout only to find the speed dial on her phone erased and no sign of the menu for Mr Iyers anywhere; so washed down her sadness with another generous double.

With a slightly lighter heart Olivia returned from Chicago on day thirty seven. Standing in the market that night she reached for a bottle to replace the diminishing fifth and realisation hit her. Of all of the changes in her home; the collection of mens' toiletries in the bathroom, the piles of paper on tables and the rearranged kitchen cupboards her liquor cabinet had remained strangely untouched. On reflection she remembered tearing her counterparts home to pieces on the day she came out of the tank with a sudden, overwhelming comprehension of the enormity of her situation. The fear of being trapped driving her to desperately seek out alcohol, any alcohol to numb the pain. There hadn't been any. Not a drop. Anywhere. She, the _other_ Olivia didn't drink. And so with the memory clear she placed, with great and deliberate purpose, the bottle in the basket. Threw in a six pack for good measure thrilling in the knowledge that this act that this was entirely hers.

She started making deals with herself. A drink on return from work only if she'd been to the lab. Only if she's not flinched when Peter bathed her with one of his warm, worried stares. A refill if she'd managed not to react when something from that time, the missing, unknown time was mentioned. A glad of wine allowed only if she'd cooked in dinner from scratch. A night cap permitted if she took it to bed staying there once the glass was drained. Then suddenly, without noticing two week had gone by. It was day fifty one and she had been back way longer than she'd been gone. New pictures hung on the walls, new linen graced the bed and her kitchen was her own again. She'd found new toiletries and a new scent and they were becoming familiar, comforting in their newness. Her sister was coming to visit at the weekend and there seemed to be a hint of possibility in the air. A hint of a future again. There was just one thing she had to do. Determined she picked up the phone and started to type a text message.

Olivia Dunham has always been fond of a drink.

Before...Peter enjoyed knowing this about her. Enjoyed the fact that he knew the delicate looking blonde was actually a robust, dare he say, hardened drinker. Enjoyed the knowledge that she could drink him, and most from his darker past under the table if she so chose. Enjoyed the memories of their all too rare trips to bars where she'd knock back a double before nursing a beer and share a little more of herself with him. Magic tricks, logic puzzles, a taste for awful puns and the card counting that were never mentioned at work but a part of their shared history regardless. He enjoyed the few nights she had let him into her home; when she had stood in the kitchen doorway proffering a beer in one hand or the whisky bottle in the other. Enjoyed the nights when cases were too tough and home seemed too far away and they'd break open beer from the lab fridge and order a pizza. Now all of those memories tortured. Felt like the pounding of a head after way too many shots.

He'd allowed himself to become distracted. He had betrayed her. From the second day when the pleasure of being able to hold Her in his arms had unbalanced him such that he hadn't noticed She hadn't ordered Her own matching shot he had been guilty. Guilty even if was more of an omission than a lie. The guilt remains. Wraps him. The guilt of the slightly awkward dinner dates when She ignored the wine in favour of the sparkling water. The guilt of ignoring the fact She never once offered the whisky bottle when he was in Her apartment; the guilt of how easily he was sidetracked from knowing by the hint of skin, the gentle caress of lips and the promise of more. The memories sparkle in their nearness and slowly he himself starts to fade. Whenever he is alone, without conscious thought the recollections hammer at him, his failings relentlessly catalogued.

Today, the fifty first he thinks, has been a tough day. The kind of day that, not so long ago, might have finished with his feet propped up on her desk, a beer in his hand. Perhaps even one of the days when Walter would get a lift home with Astrid and they would put the world to rights shot glass in hand over her coffee table or in a corner booth in a less than perfect bar. Tonight he is alone. Alone with only the remains of the awful day and the significantly worse memories of his transgressions. He lies on the bed fully dressed waiting for the time when sleep might claim him, ease some of the pain. In the darkness his phone springs to life and lets out the shrill pitch of a text message arriving.

"Too late for a drink? O"

He can't imagine, can't begin to contemplate what this might mean when a second message hits his inbox. Bittersweet and yet full of promise,

" It's what normal people do"


	5. Chapter 5

A/N Nearly there with this one - many thanks to everyone who has been following and reveiing this story - i really do appreciate it. This is for Liz who asked if Peter was going to get fixed...here its is make your own mind up!

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Peter Bishop has made a lifetime habit of being transient.

He's never been comfortable sticking in one place, at one endeavour. He ditched his degree, his studies when expectations felt pressing. He ran to Europe when his mother's sadness filled the room, filled their lives. He stayed away when the guilt of not having been there for her pummelled his brain, his self worth. He indebted himself to the bad guys when he fell for the wrong girl and money was the only thing that might help her, gave himself willingly. He ran to a war zone when the bitterness of the breakup, the consequences of his actions made the entire of the United States seem too small to hide, too claustrophobic. Yet somehow he'd come home. Home to a place that he didn't call home. Did not want to acknowledge as such. And he stayed. They never talked about this. The sudden sedentary nature of a previously wild spirit. Never acknowledged the ever strengthening bonds that tethered him. Keeping him in place, ensuring he stayed. Stayed until the betrayal, the unknown, incomprehensible truth became clear until the world wasn't big enough for him and he fled once more. Fled to a different place, a different home. Another place that he couldn't call home. A home empty of the emotion that makes a home simply because she was missing. He didn't even realise it until he met another like her. Talked to Her, realised what was missing. What _he_ was missing. The as the enormity of his actions started to dawn she was there once more and the idea of being without her was abhorrent.

This is what he had done – for a further forty days he had been without her, had allowed the shadow Her to take her place. Had missed the blatant truth before his eyes. _His_ eyes that had seen both, compared both had missed the truth. Not wanted to see it.

For the last fifty days he's watched and waited and every day he's been hit again with magnitude of his error. Realised the scale of his betrayal; how foolish he's been. Has seen the multitude of missed signs, missed warnings. Has had to watch as she's suffered, fought to claim her life for her own again. Realised so much of the blame lies with him; seen that her pain has him at the root. Yet he has not run. In truth the idea of England, Peru, Iraq, or just somewhere else has not even crossed his mind.

Instead he waits. If asked, and no one dares ask, he isn't even sure what he's waiting for. He knows it's not forgiveness. That no words will make up for burning in his gut, the pain in his head, the continued humming, inescapable knowledge of what he has done. As the days go by he watches her, reticent to speak, not knowing what else he can possibly say. He watches her fight her grief. He sees every frightened skittish glance, sees her discomfort – her second guessing. Watches a myriad of emotions play across her face when she comes to the lab, her reluctance to engage with him or his father. He sees from her posture the fact that she is sleeping on the sofa or the floor. Sees from her paling skin and diminishing frame that food is not as regular as it should be. Watches new clothes appear in her daily rotation. The shadows under her eyes indicate a lack of sleep, and he tortures himself with the idea of what haunts her dreams. Yet he does not run.

Instead he waits. A late night phone call gives him hope. He sees her set her jaw and her frame and start to reclaim her place in the lab in such a way that makes it clear to all that she had been missing. He watches all her little ticks, thrills at the silent phone call that highlights to him she is counting once more. Wonders what he can say, what he can do to let her know the other didn't do this. That this is entirely her. Hope starts to blossom when he hears no news of her moving apartment, of her relocating, moving assignments. He'd half expected some movement, assumed he'd learned from their conversations the art of running, of moving. Instead she moves towards herself. Hesitantly but its there for him to see. Her slow steps to reclaim herself. She starts swimming again, appears in the lab with the remnants of a smoothie he'd never seen in the other's hand. He thrills as she walks past and chlorine hints at the air as she moves with ever increasing purpose. He cheers internally the day he finds her in the makeshift office surrounded by papers - not hidden across town in the federal building. He worries that she is drinking too much, worries what a predilection for scotch and no food does to a person over time but says nothing. Doesn't know what to say when all he really wants to do is apologise again for having missed this. Wants to let her know this, even as potentially self destructive as it is, is all her. Wonders if he'll ever feel comfortable enough to try and charm her with an insight such as this again; imagines the hopelessness of never again having that option. Yet he does not run.

Instead he waits. After Chicago a new photo of her niece appears on the desk, an envelope of childish art work arrives in the post on two consecutive weeks and the atmosphere lightens still more. There are half formed, cynical smiles and there are times when she leans into his space, is willing to walk a fraction closer to him as they move through the city. Many days now she will sit in the lab and bounce ideas with him directly, eyes burning with a passion he hadn't seen in months, willing to hold his gaze, occasionally daring him to turn away.

Peter Bishop has made a lifetime habit of being transient.

Before...Olivia enjoyed knowing this about him. Enjoyed the car journeys, the slow days, the nights in bars when she'd coax him to tell of places he'd been. . Had loved getting to see it first hand, of walking some of those places with him – of sharing it with him. She enjoyed the frisson of danger that came with understanding his past. Enjoyed knowing despite it all he was so clearly one of the good guys. She enjoyed knowing that their task had purpose, enough at least to tame his flightier tendencies. Enjoyed watching him soften towards his father. Enjoyed watching him help create first a base for the two of them, then a home. Enjoyed the loose patterns that they were falling into, pizza nights, a local bar, regular banter in the car. Enjoyed seeing him put down roots and learn that staying was no bad thing. When he ran, after the horror at the Charles Bridge she couldn't find it in her heart to blame him. She knew that she, no they, needed him back but she didn't blame him. Instead she started planning and counting the ways to get to him, the ways to persuade him to come back...and he did. When she sat in Barrett's back yard on the day she counts as number one, she was as honest as she's ever been with him and she sees it hurts him.

Yet he doesn't run.

She waits, every day expecting to be the day she hears he's gone again. Angry with herself that she can't decide what would be worse. For him to be gone or for him to remain. Frustrated that his presence, his very nearness both upsets and calms. Disheartened that he is both the embodiment of her success, of her having beaten everything that was done to her and yet also the walking evidence of how much she has lost. Knows that she cannot remain forever in limbo. It was this knowledge that drove her out of her warm apartment into the cold night air. The walk to their bar was short and made with purpose. It is the third time she has walked here since she has been back but the first that she walked through the doors. Memories claim her and yet she can not help but wonder how many new memories have been made here without her.

He's already at the bar and turns as she approaches. Hands her a generous double already poured. Meets her eyes, holds them a fraction too long, reads the worry in them,

"She was never here Olivia. We...She...I we never did this. I should have ..."

The pain in his voice is palpable and it wounds her, even as she feels the relief of his words, feels the comfort of knowing how much this matters to him. She pulls herself onto the bar stool, allows her hand to brush at his arm, as the emotions flicker across her face and a ghost of a smile hits her eyes.

"Think of a number, double it.."

Peter Bishop isn't running any more, has no plans to, can't imagine anywhere he'd rather be than in this slightly grubby bar; watching the woman at his side become more animated as she throws out number puzzle after number puzzle. Moving ever closer to finding herself, finding him again.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N I really appreciate all of the feedback I have had along the way for this, my first effort at a multi chapter fic (and possibly the longest thing I've written since my dissertation!) I feel like I left this story not quite finished. And as such am throwing in a final chapter to close it down. Its written in a slightly different style to the first few chapters – purposely done but I'd love to know what you think and whether it works.

There is a companion to this story. A one shot from one of the other key players point of view. It is called Surety Lost. Go have a look.

As ever characters are not mine and are borrowed lovingly with no claims being made.

xxxxxx

On day fifty six against a backdrop of Tubular Bells a friendly but heated debate is underway in the lab under the Kresge Building when the two technicians arrive with a body. It is the thirteenth time the two men have been in the lab and she can't help but wonder whether they get paid extra to deal with the team, Whether the lab is just a little too unorthodox for most of their colleagues. After a chat and debrief with a now maniacally excited Walter the men leave and she slips out behind them, keen to take a break before the detail of the new case overrides and desperate for a moments silence. The two men are talking and she moves slowly, interested in what she might hear yet not wanting to be caught eavesdropping.

"How many times have we been there now Jim?"

"Gotta be sixteen. Easy. They're a funny bunch alright, but they must be good otherwise we'd be at the morgue a mite more often."

"I thought for a while we wouldn't be back here anymore – couple of months back when the blonde all but disappeared, was never around I didn't think Dr Bishop would be allowed to carry on. After all she's the one in charge."

"I think I'd miss them if we didn't get to pop over here from time to time so I'm glad she's back. Not bad to look at either, hey?"

She sits down abruptly on a bench and ignoring the complement replays the conversation she has just heard and what it might mean. For the fifth time she is forced to revaluate her assumptions about Her, about this missing time. Realises that whilst she has grieved for the taint the other woman has brought to her life, whilst her things and aspirations are undoubtedly contaminated there has not been quite the wholesale occupation she had imagined. The weight lifts a little more.

xxxxxx

The afternoon of day sixty two sees them checking into a hotel in New Orleans. They don't often trav el so far and Walter has been expounding hypotheses around brainwaves and meditation for long enough that she has a throbbing headache and has managed to almost tune him out. She guiltily glances at the amenities board whilst making noncommittal, yet hopefully encouraging noises and is relieved to see there is an outdoor swimming pool.

Twenty minutes later she has just made her third turn, feeling her muscles stretch and her habitual calm descend as she finds her breathing pattern when the otherwise still water implodes as a large male body cannonballs into the main pool. Through her goggles she is astonished to see Peter wave at her. She splutters and surfaces. Surprised.

Head clearly above water, he is pushing his hair back off his forehead, eyes scrunched but grinning widely.

"Thought I'd come and join you." An eyebrow raises in a silent challenge as he pulls himself to the edge.

Five strokes and she is holding the side of the pool next to him, "How did you know where I was?"

"You're where you always are when we check into a hotel like this," he smiles. It's a deceptively innocent smile, "Did you think I didn't know? Come on. As you were." In a surge he pushes off from the wall and into an enthusiastic front crawl, splashing violently.

She cannot help but smile, amused by this small intrusion into her life.

xxxxxx

Day seventy one is her bi-annual review with Broyles. As she prepares for the meeting in her once again rarely used office in the Federal Building she wonders how they're going to handle her being measured on someone else's performance. Wonders whether it is hysteria or healing that brings the smile to her lips as she imagines challenging the outcome on the grounds it was based on the efforts of an identical interloper from another dimension, another world.

Broyles looks intimidatingly formal as he welcomes her into his office with a brisk "Agent Dunham." It quickly evaporates as he shares one of his rare smiles, "I'm glad to see you looking healthier, more well rested Olivia." He nods and leans forward, " Now lets get rid of the elephant in the room shall we? I think I know you well enough to know that you will have reviewed all of the files submitted by...ah...er...during your absence. What I think you are now ready to hear is that she did an okay job. This in conjunction with the excellent work from _you_ over the rest of this reporting period means you will carry forward last half's great result. Unofficially however I need to tell you," he pauses and forces eye contact, "and you need to hear. All she managed was okay. I was starting to become concerned that you'd lost your spark. I didn't push it because I knew the impact crossing over had on your health the first time and wanted to give you some time. I thought it might be worse second time round. Now of course, and since you came back to us I am desperately sorry I didn't push harder. Didn't act. I thought I was helping you and I did the opposite. I'm hoping we can put it fully behind us and move on."

She is astounded by the apology, by how well he has understood her unarticulated fear that even as a double agent She was a better agent. A more valuable part of the team. Someone who is missed. If the apology is a surprise so too is the response she finds comes naturally, without guile, "It's fine Sir really. I didn't understand at first but I think I do now and it really is okay."

She thinks she may believe it.

xxxxxxx

Day seventy seven and she's driving them back from Hartford where they have left Walter and Astrid at one of Massive Dynamic facilities that they had only found out once Walter 'took over'. The traffic is light and she is supremely conscious of Peter in the passenger seat. Of the fact that Walter is not with them; that they are alone for the first time in ten days. Peter is skilled in facing forward and yet focusing fully on her. She can feel his attention and has caught his eye on the four times she's looked over at him. Unlike previous weeks his gaze is unconcerned, not filled with worry and feels a lot like the looks he took to throwing around after the ill-fated Jacksonville trip. As then she finds herself warming with silent anticipation of what that might mean.

Day seventy eight and she is less hopeful. The morning of her birthday dawns with a threatening looking sky. She arrives at work to find the lab doors locked and chained – a sign on the door noting a dangerous spillage being cleared away and barring entry. She is flummoxed on how this has happened with Walter two hours away and out of trouble. A phone call to Peter adds to her frustration levels and gives her a pang. He has obviously forgotten what the day means,

"Can't talk now Livia." he cuts her off before she can even formulate her thoughts, "I'm in the middle of something. I'm going to take the day off. I know what's happened - aan you not just work at the Federal Building?"

Frustrated she heads back across the city. Only the lack of post in her in tray eases her jangling nerves and she throws herself into a pile of paperwork pushing all thoughts of the day to one side.

She arrives at home as the light is fading, puddles and pooling water making the drive treacherous. She is relieved to pull into her street but confused to see the familiar sight of the Bishop car opposite her building. Forgoing an umbrella she stalks across the road and raps sharply on the passenger window. Peter, surrounded by empty coffee cups, sandwich and candy packets, leans across to unlock the door and let her in. She slides into the seat and surveys what is clearly the detritus of a stakeout, wondering what on earth to say. Peter breaks the silence,

"When you go in you shouldn't panic. One of my," he pauses and throws her a wry half smile, "contacts is in the back yard and there's someone else upstairs. Both of them are acquired tastes but I'd prefer you didn't shoot them."

"The lab?" It isn't the question she wants to ask but it's the only one she can form as her brain kicks into gear.

"Ah yes. He is clearly embarrassed. " Sorry not really a spillage. Just wanted to make it a bit difficult to get into and make sure the campus security guards were more alert than they usually are."

The pieces fall into place and whilst history tells her there is nothing that can stop her stepfather she is touched by the efforts he has gone to and doesn't know what to say. She thinks, skimming her hand across the top of his,

"Thank you. Enough now though." She pauses, "Do you want to come in? Maybe get a pizza?"

He pauses. He woke up in her apartment less than eighty days ago and yet she had not invited him in for over a hundred days. The memory of this betrayal of trust tortures him still, and her too he thinks, as he watches her chew her lip as she ponders her offer. It's now his turn to lay his hand over hers and squeeze. Today doesn't feel like the right day to face that set of demons. He peers out of the rain hammered windscreen, "Do you mind if I take a rain check. I'm liking the view from here right now?"

She is both disappointed and relieved by his answer. The adrenalin spikes and makes her giggle at the poor pun. She pauses once more and leans over and gently brushes a kiss against his cheek so softly he isn't sure if he felt it, imagined it or wished it. Her eyes flick to his and flick away again and she whispers, "Goodnight Peter. Thanks." Runs to the house with its empty post box and door mat and smiles thinking of her avenging scientist guarding the door.

xxxxxx

Day ninety and they've closed a horrific case. They have worked around the clock and are shaken and sickened and in desperate need of unwinding. Walter has a plan involving a fruit trifle ice cream concoction he had read about in the restaurant pages and Astrid has been talked into being a co-conspirator. Peter has decided to call in his rain check from two weeks earlier and surprised and exhausted Olivia has agreed.

She breathes deeply as she opens the door to him, welcomes him in. She notes his eyes quickly taking in the changes she has made. Enough for her to have reaffirmed her ownership but without wholesale change.

"I come bearing gifts" He waves a bottle of red wine in one hand and produces a box from behind his back in his other, "and the piece de resistance for a mindless night, Ipresent you Yatzee. A game that allows you to play with the numbers and gives me scant satisfaction of almost gambling. What say you?"

She laughs as he shuts the door behind him, "I say – damn the phone!" she moves off into her bedroom as he tried to avert his eyes – doesn't wnat to think about when he was last there, "do you want to open the wine and get set up while I sort this. Hey Rach, you okay?"

She leans against the wall listening to her sister and watches him move around her apartment. She is pleased that her mind isn't playing games with her, presenting her with visions of what might have happened. He shucks off his coat and throws it carelessly over a chair leaving the box on the coffee table. As he moves into the kitchen she finds herself drifting to watch him. He cracks the screwcap on the wine and puts it on the worktop. She is no longer listening to her sister as the memory hits her. As if it were yesterday rather than over two months ago she remembers sitting on the floor on the tenth night howling as she realised that the pans, microwave dishes and glassware had all been re-homed in different places. She remembers pulling the contents of all out in frenzy as she slammed everything back to its _proper_ place. She remembers it all now and holds her breadth as Peter opens the right cupboard first time and grabs two big deep wineglasses. She hadn't realised there was a test but there was and he's passed and she laughs, surprising both her sister and Peter.

"Rach I've got to go Peter's going to guzzle all the wine if I don't stop him. Send my love to Ella I'll call on Saturday. Love you." Abruptly she ends the call.

"That's a little harsh. I haven't had a drop." He picks up the glasses and carries them to the table and starts to set up the game.

"I know. It's just" she is embarrassed, doesn't want to reopen the wound for herself or for him. Acknowledges fully for the first time she is more interested in moving forward, creating a new future, "I want to get on with the game, with the night," she breathes, looks at him full on and flashes one of her rare smiles, "with our lives."


End file.
